


Unbearable

by blue_jack



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-18
Updated: 2010-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is simplicity in pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbearable

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so very very much to awarrington for beta’ing this. You are incredibly wonderful.

There is simplicity in pain.

A person may struggle against the reality of it, may refuse to cry out or flinch or show any indication that the pain affects him, but the truth remains that one bears it from the initial blow until the last ache fades completely.

Physical pain, Spock has learned, is much preferable to emotional anguish.

Since the destruction of Vulcan and death of his clan . . . of his childhood tormentors, his teachers and those he only witnessed on the periphery of his life . . . since the death of his mother, Spock has experienced such pain that it is . . . unbearable. A word he would never have thought to apply to anything he faced.

There is no surcease. There is never a minute he does not remember, does not feel the throb in his mind of absent souls that grows louder and more persistent day by day. Outwardly, his composure is as it ever was. He has seen crew members look askance at him, no doubt wondering how he can appear eminently unfazed by the event. They do not, nor ever will understand what it means to be Vulcan.

Nonetheless, although he maintains his outward calm, internally is another matter.

Although Spock has been alone in many ways for the entirety of his life, he has never been so aware that solitude can be a burden. He is not the last of his kind. There are ten thousand two hundred thirty seven known members of his race in existence. It is a pittance in comparison to the billions that once lived but still enough to be genetically viable if guided carefully. However, while he is not the last, he is the only Vulcan on the Enterprise, and that is an immutable fact that rejects all offers of sympathy. Even from those he values the most.

Nyota attempts to be of assistance, however, Spock cannot interact with her in the way she desires. He has touched her thoughts. Horror, shock, pity. He has no use for such things. It rouses an illogical anger that grows with each instance of mental proximity. She has never experienced the isolation that comes with being a pariah, never known what it was to struggle against everyone's preconceptions. She had a happy childhood, loved and adored by her family and all those she encountered. She has never watched everything and everyone torn away from her in a matter of seconds.

His work suffers. He has observed a four point three percent decrease in his productivity. It is not something anyone will comment upon, if indeed anyone notices at all, but it is there nevertheless. No matter what Spock attempts, he cannot return to his previous optimal levels, and he feels he must devote more time to his duties in the science labs and on the bridge in order to compensate and exceed his standard output.

It is, no doubt, partly due to the decreased time he spends in meditation. From the age of one, Spock has been taught to practice mental exercise to soothe and structure the mind. Meditation is integral to being Vulcan, and Spock acknowledges that, logically, he should concentrate on calming his disorderly emotions even more than he has in the past. But peace is remarkably difficult to achieve when he is deep within his own thoughts, tumultuous feelings insidiously intruding into his trances, and there is no reprieve even there, only death and darkness, the sound of rocks crumbling away and silence where once there were voices.

If he were anyone other than who he is, he would wish Vulcan was still in existence. He would wish to know that even though he turned his back on the Science Academy, it is however still in operation. He would wish that he could walk down the dusty streets of his home city and perchance view faces he has not seen since his childhood.

If he were prone to delusion, he might imagine that he made it to the surface of the planet even one minute sooner, that he reached his parents and the Elders and led them all to safety, that he urged his mother to stay far from the edge of the rock, that his mother is alive and well.

But he is not, and it is illogical to want things that cannot be.

Spock focuses instead on something attainable and endeavors to discover a way to find relief for his pain. He approaches it as he would any experiment, testing various hypotheses, evaluating their success against frustratingly vague parameters such as the quality and duration of his sleep cycle and a general scale of well-being. He keeps the pain at bay with the knowledge that through rigorous research and testing, he will eventually find a cure. But every effort ends in failure.

\-----

He has begun to average two point three hours of sleep, down from his typical four. He rarely dreamt in the past, but now, he awakens abruptly every night, heart rate accelerated and breath rapid, still able to hear the distant sound of screaming. His appetite is nonexistent, and his food intake has decreased by over thirty percent. He has less energy and attending his duty station becomes more and more difficult, although he refuses to surrender his responsibilities when they are all that he has left. His productivity decreases a further six point one percent, and it takes longer to recall certain facts than before.

Most troubling, portions of his waking hours are spent half-living in the past. He will be sitting at a table for a meal, forcing himself to consume a minimum of calories, and while he will see the tray of food in front of him, he can also visualize his home, down to a smudge of red dirt near the entranceway, see his mother sitting in the library as she peruses a book, see her smile at him. He can carry on a conversation that he had twelve years prior.

_How are you doing today, Spock?_

_I am well, Mother._

_You look tired._

_Mother . . ._

_Can’t I worry about my son?_

He cannot understand why her shows of concern discomforted him so. He would sacrifice anything to have her back with him now.

If Spock concentrates, he can banish the memories. Sometimes, however, he does not choose to do so.

He considers requesting assistance from McCoy, knowing it is his duty to inform the doctor of his diminished capacity, but the shame that suffuses him at the thought prevents him. Vulcans do not require pharmacological intervention to achieve peace, even one such as he, and that would be the only aid McCoy would be able to offer.

There is an alternative. He could request leave in order to journey to New Vulcan to seek a mind healer, but he ultimately decides that is not necessary. He is certain that it is simply a matter of time before he discovers a way to alleviate his pain. It has been five point seven months since his symptoms began, but in another few weeks, a few months at most, he will be as he once was. He is sure of it.

And . . . there is also the fact that he does not want to lose this last contact with his mother. His conversations with her are both torment and comfort to him.

\-----

Time is his enemy. At his current rate of decline, Spock estimates he has another one point four months left before he collapses completely. It is a race to find a solution to his condition before his faculties become too impaired, and he devotes every spare waking moment to his research.

He must consider the possibility that he may experience some type of . . . breakdown . . . although he believes this is avoidable. Nonetheless, should it occur, if it transpires onboard the Enterprise, the captain will be forced to relieve him of his station. If it takes place during an away mission, it may lead to injury of either the crew or himself, and once again, the captain will intervene. This is unacceptable. Spock is nothing without duty. It is all that remains.

But there is no recourse from the pain.

\-----

Spock beams down to a new planet with the captain and three other crew members. He has seen all three in the ship’s corridors before, but he recollects only two of their names.

_I will be proud of you, whatever you do._

_I cannot converse with you now, Mother._

_I understand. I know it embarrasses you, but I love you, Spock._

_I will always love you, Mother._

He stumbles over a rock as he moves away from the transporter site. He does not fall, but he is aware of the captain’s gaze on him. Kirk has begun watching him recently, and Spock knows that he is aware of his inability to concentrate, although he has not approached him in regards to it. Spock wonders for an instant if he feels a sense of satisfaction in seeing Spock brought low. Then he realizes he does not care and keeps moving forward.

_I spoke to your instructors today, Spock. They voiced some concern about your behavior with the other students._

_I no longer attend school, Mother._

_Don’t be silly. Of course you do._

He supposes he should feel gratitude that he was allowed even a moment of quiet. He hears his mother’s voice constantly now as he relives conversations they shared in the past, or on occasion, as she seems to respond to something he tells her now. He has not slept in approximately two hundred fifty seven hours he thinks, but he is unsure.

He is collecting samples of flora when they attack. He scanned the surface before the away team beamed down, and he was positive there were no humanoid life signs in the area. He was positive. The lone security officer in their away team is not in sight. No one is in sight.

He never heard his mother scream as she fell to her death, but he imagines it sounded something like this, shrill and helpless and terrified.

Spock fights, but his movements are sluggish and uncoordinated, and he is bombarded by flashes of emotion and thoughts that are not his own with each strike. He does not even think to reach for his phaser until twenty three—no twenty five seconds into the skirmish, and when he draws it, one alien knocks it out of his hand immediately. They are four to one, and in his current state, he cannot adequately defend himself.

There is a heavy blow to his left cheek, and he staggers. Another soon follows, and he falls to the ground. It does not stop them.

He curls into a fetal position and knows only pain, dark and green and burning. He cannot think because of it, cannot fight any longer, cannot deny it. The pain is overwhelming, spreading to encompass every cubic centimeter of his body, and amidst the physical barrage, amidst the dull sounds of fists striking flesh, louder than even his mother’s screams, his mind becomes impossibly clear. He focuses for the first time in months, on the rocks that dig into his side, on the feel of each individual blow that jars his body, on something that comes not from his memories or the recesses of his mind but from outside of his control. Turmoil falls away, and Spock realizes . . . he is going to die.

It shocks him, and in the sudden clarity, he acknowledges that thought that follows immediately after. He does not want to die, not at the hands of these four on this small, unchartered planet, not from exhaustion nor lack of nutrients. He does not wish to die at all. Not even from the guilt of what he could not do.

He shouts and somehow manages to roll away from a kick that would have landed against his temple. It has never been in him to surrender.

There is blessed silence in his head.

\-----

When Spock opens his eyes, he is on a biobed. The captain sits awkwardly in a chair next to him, asleep, head hanging back in a position that will surely cause soreness by the time he rouses. Kirk is bruised and bandaged and appears to be more suited for a biobed himself than to sit attendance on another patient.

It would appear that Spock has been unconscious for over thirty two hours. It is the most rested he has felt in months.

Pain flares in his ribs as he shifts, and now that he is conscious of one injury, he is aware there are more.

Spock is cataloguing the total extent of his damage when the captain’s head rolls, causing him to jerk awake.

“Spock?” His voice is raspy, and he clears his throat, wincing as he sits upright. “How do you feel?”

“If you are referring to my physical health, I am sufficiently well to resume my—”

“Ha!” The captain snorts. “Try telling Bones that!”

“Dr. McCoy is unduly—”

“Dr. McCoy is a scary, scary man, Spock, and not a person I want to go up against. You’re staying in bed until he says so.”

Considering the number of occasions when Kirk has absconded from Sick Bay, Spock does not believe he can legitimately tell Spock how he should or should not behave regarding the doctor’s orders.

“Captain—”

“That’s an order, Mr. Spock. You _will_ stay in Sick Bay until Dr. McCoy gives you permission to leave, do you understand me?” He speaks sharply, and the determination on his face shows Spock that he will not be gainsaid. It is easy to deduce what the doctor’s scanners found in addition to his injuries.

“Very well.”

“Good. Good.” Kirk lets out a deep breath, collapsing back into his chair, and it is only as he relaxes that Spock becomes aware of how tense he was. For a moment, Spock is taken aback by the very visible relief on his features before Kirk moves his hand to his face—knuckles bruised and scraped—rubbing over his forehead before covering his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me over there.”

Before Spock can ask how that would be possible, Kirk drops his hand and says tiredly, “You and I are going to have a long talk after you recover, Spock.”

Spock makes sure to keep his expression blank. The captain’s tone of voice implies what the topic of their conversation will be. “Of course, Captain.” He does not look forward to it.

\-----

The talk does not occur in the way Kirk most likely planned.

“What the hell were you _thinking_?”

Spock tenses, his breath coming out in a hiss as the captain shakes him. “You will exacerbate my injuries—”

“Then that should make you happy!” But he releases him with a shove, and Spock falls back to the biobed, gritting his teeth to contain the grunt of pain.

No one else is in the room with them. The captain ordered all the medical staff out, even Dr. McCoy who refused at first but finally conceded after Kirk whispered something to him, his hands gesticulating wildly.

“I saw you!” Spock stills. “I saw you stand there and _watch_ them come at you, saw you not make one _single_ move to pull out your phaser or get away! You fucking let them get you, Spock!”

“Surely you must be mistaken,” he says with a placidity he does not feel. “Why would I—”

“Don’t! Don’t even try that bullshit circuitous logic with me.” The captain begins to pace. “I _know_ you could’ve fought back if you’d wanted to, but you barely defended yourself! What the hell is going on here, Spock?”

“Captain, this is not your—”

Kirk slams his hands down onto the biobed. “You made it into my business when you jeopardized the mission and put the life of one of my crew members into harm’s way!”

Spock stiffens and sits up, ignoring the toll on his body. “No one else was—”

“I’m talking about you, you stupid, _stupid_ ass!”

Spock finds himself illogically feeling mildly affronted. His intellect has never been in question, and for the captain to suggest otherwise is somewhat insulting.

“By remaining behind, I was able to give the hostages—”

“We had the situation under control! Don’t give me a bunch of crap about sacrificing yourself for their sakes!”

The captain has apparently reached his conclusion and will not be deterred. It is pointless to engage in an argument with him.

“I didn’t say anything at first, because it’s not like we’re friends, no matter what old Spock says is going to happen in the future. And I thought I’d be the _last_ person you’d want to talk to about this, especially after what I said to you on the bridge that one time. And then I found out you and Uhura split up, and you _looked_ awful, but you still were doing your job as perfectly as ever, and I didn’t want to make things even worse, but you did that all by yourself with that stunt a few weeks ago! And then I was going to have it out with you, but it’s been so fucking busy lately, and you seemed better, and I remembered what that was like, just needing to have it out with the whole world without people butting their noses in where they didn’t belong . . . what the hell happened, Spock? You were doing better. You were fucking _doing better_.”

Spock is surprised to hear that the captain has been watching him for so long, has been aware that there has been a problem all this time. He thought no one had noticed, not even Nyota who can barely look him in the eyes anymore.

As to what happened? How can he answer that question when he does not know the answer himself?

Immediately after the attack, Spock felt calm. He was able to sleep, to eat, to think and function and even meditate for short periods of time. But as his body began to recover, the sense of peace began to dissipate, slowly at first so that Spock believed the occasional symptom to be temporary regression rather than indications of the return of his depression. Until the first time he heard his mother once again. Then he knew.

It is a horrible thing . . . to dread the sound of his deceased mother’s voice.

He did not beam down to the planet’s surface with the intention of putting himself in danger. His internal injuries had but recently healed, and the emotional pain was a growing but still distant—still manageable—phenomenon.

But when he saw the rebels running towards them, his first thought was that their chosen approach to terrorism was to take hostages and negotiate for their release. His second was that they would no doubt be furious about the disappearance of the scientists the captain was leading to safety, but that further insured the safety of the next person they captured as they would need to recoup their losses.

His third thought was that even torture was preferable to the slow and debilitating decline into pain and possible madness.

In the face of the captain’s questions, Spock reluctantly acknowledges that he has been unable to find a solution to his crisis, and as such, he has an obligation to step down as first officer.

He cannot. What will he become without duty? He _cannot_.

“Spock?”

The captain reaches for him, looking as if he intends to seize Spock’s shoulders, but Spock’s uniform is torn, and he does not want Kirk to touch him, refuses to experience the rush of disgust and pity he knows will be there. He grasps the captain’s wrist to prevent him, meaning to throw him across the room if need be, but Kirk’s uniform is damaged as well, and Spock’s fingers land unwittingly on exposed skin.

Anger. The captain is infuriated. But it is tempered by worry, by a genuine concern that astounds Spock. And underneath that are neither antipathy nor false sympathy but a memory, of need and rage and the compulsion to fight, of not caring who won or lost as long as someone was bleeding by the end of it, of forgetting everything for a moment in the purifying fire of pain.

“I didn’t give you permission to read my thoughts, Spock.” Kirk’s voice is quiet, but he makes no effort to remove his wrist. His arm flexes beneath Spock’s fingers.

“I . . . apologize, Captain.” It is with a curious sense of reluctance that he withdraws his hand.

Kirk is not Vulcan. He can never fully comprehend what that means and how the planet’s loss has impacted Spock.

But the encounter proves he is not as “other” as Spock has believed him to be.

The captain straightens and puts distance between the two of them. It could be seen as a rejection, but Spock has sampled his thoughts, and he recognizes it for what it is, an opportunity for Spock to collect himself.

“I know—better than most—that people need a second chance, a third chance, hell, a fifty seventh chance sometimes. I’m not pretending to get everything that’s going on in your head. But I can’t watch you put yourself or anyone else at risk on a mission. Today . . . today was dangerous.”

“I understand, Captain. It will not happen again.” Spock gives his word, and he will keep it. But he does not know how.

“Good. Fuck.” Kirk rubs his face with his hands. “If you . . . if you want to talk about it—”

“Indeed.”

“Yeah. Alright. Okay.” Spock hears the abrupt exhalation, but he is no longer looking at the captain. “Would it . . . help to go to New Vulcan? Because I can—”

“No.” He does not want to see how different everything looks, how out of place his people are. He does not want to witness how lost they have become. And for any treatment to be effective with a mind healer, Spock would need to remain behind as the Enterprise continued its voyage. He stifles an illogical flash of panic at the thought. “No.”

“Had to offer.” The sigh is long and drawn out. “You’ll need a few days for Bones to do his magic, but beginning next week, you and I are going to start sparring together in the evenings.”

Spock turns to face the other man again, one eyebrow raised. He has fought him before. He does not think humiliating the captain will be beneficial to his situation.

Kirk smiles brashly. “Just trust me. Better me than a bunch of guys you don’t know.”

With those astonishing words, the captain leaves Sick Bay.

\-----

The crew becomes accustomed to seeing the two of them emerge from the training room with numerous and varied evidences of violence apparent on their skin.

The fighting is of more assistance than Spock initially hypothesized, and he experiences a keen sense of satisfaction every time he connects. He is not at peak performance, and Kirk is unexpectedly more proficient at hand-to-hand combat than Spock assumed. Nonetheless, the captain receives more bruises than he metes out, and Spock can feel his agitation grow. He is unable to fully immerse himself in their mock battles, always cognizant that he could do permanent damage to the captain if he relinquishes control completely. The average human cannot compete in strength with a Vulcan, and were Spock to go into a frenzy, Kirk would be injured if not outright killed. So although the sparring gives him an outlet for his frustration, it is not enough. Spock’s wounds are healing. And without the physical pain to concentrate on, his thoughts are becoming scattered once again.

“You’re getting worse.”

Spock lifts his eyes from the spot on the wall he has been staring at. His mother’s voice continues to murmur in the background.

Kirk watches him, eyes narrowed, still breathing rapidly from their latest skirmish. Their bouts have become increasingly brutal recently, and there is blood dripping from a gash above his eyebrow.

It is not a question, so Spock does not feel he has to reply.

“How much longer?”

He frowns slightly at the ambiguousness.

“How much longer until you start looking for another chance to get your ass kicked?” the captain elucidates.

Spock would object to the way he phrased his inquiry, but the answer is more important than semantics. “Soon.” He cannot be more specific than that.

“ _Fuck_.” The captain wipes impatiently at the blood, smearing it across his forehead. “I hoped this would help.”

“It does.” To a small degree. He has vowed to not imperil either the crew or a mission, however, they have shore leave scheduled—

“Just—fuck—can you give me until tomorrow?”

“I do not understand.” He tongues the cut on the interior of his mouth, using the sharp sting of pain to focus on what Kirk is saying.

“I need a day to get ready.” The captain walks over to the wall and bends down to pick up a towel, wiping his face and chest and staining his skin red in the process before pulling on a shirt. “I was really hoping whaling on me would get it out of your system, but apparently not. Just promise me you won’t do anything . . . impulsive . . . until you talk to me first.”

“Tomorrow?” He ignores the rest of the captain’s words in favor of seeking clarification.

“Yeah.” Kirk’s smile is grim. “I’ve always believed in backup plans.”

His mother is singing a lullaby Spock has not heard since he was a child. He remembers asking her what the logic was of purchasing a diamond ring without verifying one was satisfied with its brilliance, especially considering the high value of diamonds at the time when the song originated. She had laughed, and they had created more appropriate lyrics together.

“Spock?”

“Tomorrow is acceptable.” He gathers his belongings and unlocks the door, the bustle of crew members talking and exercising loud after the silence of the soundproofed room. He departs, his head canted slightly to the side as he listens to her sing.

\-----

Spock studies the restraints hanging from the ceiling in place of the body bag that was there yesterday. He faces the captain, one eyebrow raised.

Kirk shifts his feet, but he does not look away. “That’s just one option. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to be tied down or not.”

The captain displays all the signs of discomfort. He is obviously perturbed by what he plans to do.

“It is not necessary for you to—”

“Yes. It is.” Kirk’s voice is implacable. Spock nods his head once in concurrence.

He takes off his shirt and folds it neatly, setting it on top of his bag next to the door. He walks over to the table where the captain’s own bag rests, as well as the myriad instruments he has brought with him. Spock does not lift any of them, content to inspect them visually.

“Yeah, so . . . pick one, or a couple, or I can use my fists, but I thought it might be better for the both of us if—”

Spock makes his selection, setting it carefully at ninety degrees to the other implements. It is apparent the captain has indeed planned for this occasion. Some of the items must have been difficult to obtain. A small part of him is tempted to inquire if Kirk has done this before, but the answer is inconsequential. Spock only needs one thing, and expert or neophyte, Kirk will be able to provide it.

Spock locks his wrist into the first cuff. It is adequate. When both are secured, he stands with his feet half a meter apart, facing the wall, his elbows level with his chin. He takes a deep breath, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and upper back twitch in anticipation.

He does not watch the captain as he prepares, but Spock is aware of his every step, pictures his actions based on the sounds he makes. He can be patient. He will be.

When Kirk asks, “Are you ready?” Spock does not jump, but it is a near thing. He nods his head sharply in response and closes his eyes.

The first blow is light, but his body jerks fiercely in reaction, his muscles tensing until he can detect a fine tremor in his arms as he readies himself for the next strike. But all the while, relief spreads through him like lightning, leaving destruction in its wake until he is hollow and reeling and his breaths are deafening within his head.

The pain builds with each successive hit, winding its way through his body, filling all the empty spaces inside of him until he is full to bursting, until his very skin vibrates with it, and his vision is green turned black. He cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot _feel_. In a moment of lucidity, he realizes he cannot stop the blows, even if he wants to. He realizes he does not want to.

By the time it ends, he is barely standing, held up by the restraints and willpower. His throat is dry and sore, and it is with some consternation that he comprehends he has been screaming. His face is wet. He does not know if this is abnormal or not, as it is the only time he has been conscious after one of these events.

It is strange to feel fingers moving over his back. It is the first gentle touch he has experienced since he and Nyota ceased their romantic relationship. It is stranger still to register it is the captain’s fingers that are stroking him. He has forgotten the captain is there.

One leg buckles, and he staggers before locking his knees, head falling forward. He blinks at the ground. Kirk comes to stand in front of him, and one gloved hand comes into his line of vision as it stabilizes him, and he feels the other at work at the restraints. He appreciates the consideration. His shields are in shambles.

Kirk catches him as he falls, stumbling under his weight. Spock knows he should do more to help, but he cannot compel his muscles to cooperate, lethargic in both mind and body. They make their way slowly to the edge of the room where he is lowered to a pallet, and he lies on his stomach, drifting and curiously disconnected from everything.

He fades in and out of awareness to the prick of a hypospray, to the sensation of Kirk massaging his wrists, to cool wetness on his back. He feels cared for, cherished almost in a way that is both foreign and bewilderingly reminiscent of his youth. He shies away from the illogical and inappropriate thought and allows himself to float, content and momentarily at peace.

\-----

They resume sparring once Spock is able, which does not take much time as the actual damage was minimal. Kirk shows no indication that his attitude towards Spock has changed. He persists in making improper jokes and tactless remarks, continues to request Spock’s opinion on important matters and his presence on missions. He acts as if the event never took place. But he shows no surprise when Spock hesitatingly approaches him weeks later.

Spock takes a deep breath as he prepares himself for what is to come, both anxious and eager. He does not enjoy the pain, although it is a necessary evil if he is to have any semblance of peace. He does not enjoy it, but he cannot survive without it.

A moan escapes him at the first strike, and he gives himself up to the sensation as it grows and twists within him, his mind quieting.

There is simplicity in pain. It burns and consumes everything in its path until nothing is left, not fear or guilt or pride, only welcome oblivion. Absolution.


End file.
